Life works itself out. You just have to believe that, don’t you? The world would be way too scary otherwise. Although some days, if I’m being perfectly honest, for no real reason whatsoever, I start to wonder: But will it really? I turned 35 yesterday. Birthdays always fuck with me. It’s not really about the aging. Although, this year, it’s kind of about the aging. The real issue is examining the year behind and preparing for the year ahead. I am not melodramatic and I am not a worrier. But I do think life is ours to own, manage, set in motion…and it’s important to take inventory, to figure out what we want and how we’re going to get it. That, I guess, is where I’m at. WHAT’S NEXT? Seriously. In which direction do I move? I’m allowed to ask. What the hell comes next? 35 is a funny age, especially when 34 ended on such a high. The book, the romance, the overwhelming sense that this is my moment. Apron Anxiety is on the fast track to success; but then again, what is success? I’m supposed to be coasting, but it feels more like crashing. Tried to cook through my confusion. Made a giant pot of kale and quinoa salad w/ chickpeas and chicken sausage, and a platter of summertime chicken breasts roasted w/ cherry tomatoes and white and green asparagus. Felt better imagining my guy coming home to good food, brain food, girlfriend food. Then bought ripped jeans and cucumber serum. That helped too. Now I’m eating leftover birthday cake. Not quite spirited, not exactly sad. Just reminding myself that everything is alright. And it is. It totally is.